


Hot Streak

by wearemany



Series: Rookies [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013-2014 NHL Season, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike comes over around two, just like he said he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Streak

**Author's Note:**

> This can stand alone, but it also fits as the last part of the Rookies 'verse. There’s, like, a _tiny_ bit of plot.

_let's be alone together_

 

Mike comes over around two, just like he said he would.

“Up here,” Jeff calls, after he hears Mike let himself in. There are soft steps on the stairs, softer still on the carpet at the landing.

Mike is quiet when he wants to be, and for a minute Jeff thinks—what if it’s not Mike at all, what if someone else took advantage of the friendly neighborhood and an unlocked front door and the alarm turned off.

Jeff holds his breath, needing to be quiet like Mike is being quiet as he comes down the hall. He’s not trapped—even with his foot still fucked up, he is a hockey player—but he wouldn’t be fast, couldn't get far.

He’s not trapped but he’s caught, like those deer on Mike’s trail cam, lumbering slow and lazy through the woods in night vision, never realizing how inevitable it is that one day Mike will bring them down.   

Mike turns the corner, stops short at the edge of the bedroom. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, low and rough.

He’s been gone a week but it feels like longer, four East coast games Jeff watched from the couch, daylight savings fucking with his head. Four o’clock starts in LA, sun setting over the ocean by the end of the first period, damn near exhausted by second intermission. Quickie hurt, flown home amidst a creeping cloud of anxiety. One point to Buffalo of all fucking things, then a solid sweep through teams he and Mike used to play so routinely they were like kissing cousins, and beating the Devils again on their own ice. All of it without him there.

Mike looks good, well-rested despite getting back so late. His hair’s dry. They must not have skated at practice today.

“Jesus,” Mike says again, taking a step closer. “Maybe warn a guy or something. Heads up what he’s walking into.”

Jeff is propped up in bed, lying on top of the covers. His right foot’s wrapped in an air splint, wedged against a pillow. He’s naked except for an old t-shirt.

“I said come over,” Jeff says. He didn’t say what for, and they haven’t done this in a while. But it’s nothing Mike hasn’t seen.

Mike’s mouth is open, eyes dragging slowly up Jeff’s legs. Jeff settles back, strokes himself a couple times. Mike swallows and he shakes his head a little, like how he tries to clear his vision after a hard check. He walks all the way into the room, shins knocking against the foot of the bed.

He bites the corner of his lip. “Need a hand with that?”

Jeff smiles. “Got a hand.”

Mike reaches back to pull his shirt over his head, shaking himself loose. “Okay, smart-ass,” he says. “Need my dick with that?”

Jeff considers it, wriggles around and lets his legs fall apart a little. They’ve fucked when his foot was in a hard cast, usually on a couch with Mike in his lap. Once, he remembers, Mike took him from behind while Jeff balanced on one foot, his other knee and both elbows braced on the bed. That probably didn’t accelerate his healing.

Mike reaches out, wraps his fingers around Jeff’s good ankle, rubbing over the bone. He’s unbuttoning his shorts with his other hand. He doesn’t ask again what Jeff wants, doesn’t have to say he’ll do whatever it is. That’s how this thing works: all or not at all. They can do summers away. They can do girlfriends, or rookies, or bar hookups. They can share every dirty detail or never kiss and tell. They can do any of it except promise there won’t be a next time.

“Your mouth,” Jeff says, and Mike kicks off the rest of his clothes and slides onto the bed, settling on his stomach between Jeff’s knees. He chews his way gently up the inside of Jeff’s thigh.

They go through these—these phases, almost. Like shifts, but stretched out over days or weeks or months even. Periods where he’s so fucking obsessed with Mike, drunk on him, surprised to want him so much, like it’s new. “We’re on a hot streak,” Mike always says when they swing back, can't keep their hands off each other. It sounds like he’s laughing it off but Jeff knows he’s just saying out loud how real it is, how necessary.

Mike's mouth is scorching, all stubble and tongue and hard, sucking bites to Jeff’s hip, and then he covers Jeff’s hand where it’s loose around the base of his cock and Jeff just gives up, stops trying to feel anything at all except whatever Mike wants to give him.

His bare ass slides against the covers, Mike’s palm lifting him up, pulling him closer. Mike always sucks Jeff’s cock like there’s no guarantee that he’ll get to finish, like he’s somehow tricked Jeff into holding still long enough to get his pants off but if he looks away for a minute Jeff might just walk out the door.

Jeff can’t even catch his breath like this, Mike so fucking stubborn and persistent and focused. He’s seen Mike in bed with other people, and Mike’s always bossy, always putting everybody right where he wants them. But he never seems as needy about it, so desperate, as when it’s just the two of them.

Mike snags the hem of Jeff’s t-shirt, shoving it up his stomach. “Off, get this off,” he says, a wild mess of sweaty curls and his tongue on the head of Jeff’s cock and his tight fist around it. The thin, worn fabric of Jeff's shirt rips as he’s yanking it over his shoulders and Mike laughs around him, triumphant as Jeff gasps and comes.

Mike rises up on his knees, spitting Jeff’s come into his hand and using it to jerk himself off hard and fast. Jeff slouches down, slides a few inches closer, bends his left knee around to pin down Mike’s calf. He grabs onto Mike’s hip and squeezes hard. With his other hand he rubs one thumb in tiny circles on Mike’s thigh.

Mike says, “Fuck,” gut-punched and panicky, and Jeff says, “I got you,” and Mike arches his back and comes.

Jeff wipes his chin, laughs a little as Mike says, “Sorry,” resting his forehead against Jeff’s chest and wheezing.

“No you’re not,” Jeff says. He smacks Mike’s ass, shoving him off and away from his bad foot. “You always make a mess of me.”

Mike smirks into the covers. “On you,” he says, and Jeff slaps his ass again.

Mike stretches out, still on his stomach, pointing his toes and flexing his fingers up toward the headboard. Jeff leans a little weight against Mike’s side, vaguely hoping he hasn’t done anything to further fuck up his foot. He’d like to try skating tomorrow, if they’ll let him.

“It’s quiet,” Mike says. “Where is everybody?”

“Busy.” Megan had a lunch planning thing, took the dogs. Carbomb’s still trying to find a truck he likes.

Mike rolls on his side, toward Jeff. “Everybody's busy,” he says, and Jeff shrugs. “You mean you sent them away.”

Jeff traces a line with his thumb down Mike’s neck, across his collarbone, down his chest. He presses his palm to Mike’s stomach until Mike allows himself to be tilted over onto his back and kissed.

“I can't even remember why I came over,” Mike murmurs.

Jeff smiles into Mike’s shoulder, gnaws at the skin there.

Mike says, “Oh yeah,” and his hand is warm between Jeff’s shoulder blades. “Because you told me to.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> _“It was a lonely week without all the guys here,”[Carter said.](http://lakingsinsider.com/2013/11/19/november-19-morning-skate-quotes-jeff-carter/)_
> 
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> More ramblings at my [Tumblr](http://dazzlingheroes.tumblr.com).


End file.
